


A Man of Letters

by athena_crikey



Category: Hornblower (TV), Hornblower - C. S. Forester
Genre: Bush trying to be a good man, Duty, Fever, Friendship, Gen, Mostly Set during Hornblower and the Hotspur, really mild h/c
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-15
Updated: 2020-02-15
Packaged: 2021-02-19 04:30:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22738732
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/athena_crikey/pseuds/athena_crikey
Summary: If Bush had ever thought about it, he would have expected his men to come to him for advice on seamanship. It never occurred to him that they might come to him for his learning.
Relationships: William Bush & Horatio Hornblower
Comments: 5
Kudos: 54





	A Man of Letters

**Author's Note:**

> Wrote this a bazillion years ago; never got around to posting.

It’s a pleasant Sunday afternoon, which is rare enough in the Inshore Squadron. Possibly in consequence – Bush has long ago given up guessing at the captain’s motivations, although he’s quick enough at predicting those of his orders pertaining to seamanship – the men have been given a Rope Yarn Sunday, which in the _Hotspur_ is even rarer. The mail barge passed by in the early hours long before the reading of the Articles, and Bush has been pacing the quarterdeck slowly while reading through his sisters’ most recent letters with painstaking care. Good weather in the fall is too rare to waste, and letters too infrequent a distraction to be carelessly flipped through. 

He’s irritated, but not exceptionally surprised, by a man clearing his throat from the railings of the deck, and turns to see Steward standing there watching him. The man, a mere Able Seaman, has made an effort to braid his pigtail neatly and tied a clean neckerchief with diligent precision. His pock-marked face is brimming with apprehension. In his gnarled hand is a rumpled envelope. 

Bush sighs and folds up his own letters. Tucks them away in the safety of his thick coat, and descends to the main deck. 

\--

Bush, accurately enough, has never considered himself to have much of a head for academics. The local schoolteacher had enough trouble getting literacy and math to stick, and didn’t make any attempt at essaying into foreign languages or great literature, not that he would have for the few pennies Bush’s family had scraped together in any case. It was beaten into him early on in his naval career that an officer was to be a model and a leader to his men, but if Bush had ever thought about it back in those early painful and sleepless days, he would have expected his men to come to him for advice on seamanship if anything. And of course, being seamen themselves, they would hardly have needed or dared to bother an officer with queries on how to calculate longitude or avoid missing stays. 

It never occurred to him that they might come to him for his learning.

\--

The first time it happens, he’s a young lieutenant in the _Sparrow_ , commission still with the crinkle in it. They’re at anchor in Spithead preparatory to being given their orders, and he’s ironing a neck cloth in the wardroom so as to be properly turned out for the first time he’ll put to sea as a lieutenant. The other officers, being both busy and more jaded, are occupied elsewhere so he’s alone with the hot iron when there’s a knock at the open door.

Bush only has to glance up to recognise a man in his watch standing in the narrow doorway; he’s only seen them all together half a dozen times, and has no idea of the man’s name. 

“Irvings, sir,” says the sailor, knuckling with one hand. Bush’s eyes drop to the other, and catch a scrap of dirty parchment grasped tight in a reddened fist. 

“What is it, man?” Bush, no hand with an iron, raises it lest it burn his best neck cloth.

“This just came off the boat for me, sir,” says the man, raising the parchment and loosening his fist so that Bush can see it’s a cheap letter, folded around itself to form the envelope.

“…And?” Bush’s mystification outweighs his temper, for the moment. 

“Never was great shakes at the reading, sir, if you catch my meaning…”

Bush does at last, irritated now with himself for not realising sooner, and puts the iron down on its flat end.

“Give it here, Irvings.”

“Thank’ee, sir.” The man hands it over immediately, standing respectfully still, eyes downcast and large frame tense. His hands are fisted so tight as to be trembling, although Bush only notes it offhandedly as he slips a finger under the cheap blob of wax and rips the letter open.

There are only a couple of lines set out in a neat and overly-cautious hand which suggests the writer is well accustomed to the pen but has little expectations of similar skills in his reader. Bush charges straight into the reading thoughtlessly, eyes ahead of his mind, eager to get on with his ironing.

“Son, I’m sorry to tell you Flora and the two little ones were knocked down by a cart this Tuesday.” At this point Bush’s galloping tongue stumbles, and he swallows thickly while his thoughts catch up sharply. He glances up at the man, standing deathly still except for the trembling, which has now consumed him entirely. Bush reads ahead cautiously, but sees no way out of it now and so continues in a slower tone, dragging the words out. “I’ll see them buried proper, but anything you’ve got put by would help. Your father.”

There’s a dark X below the passage, careful and respectful as the man standing downcast in front of him, who has just lost his family. Bush stands, staring at the cheap paper in his hands, dully aware of the heat radiating from the iron by his elbow and the smell of hot metal. Bush is no stranger to poverty or hard living, and has always lived with the philosophical sense that things must be taken as they come. Even so, two lines written and read by a stranger feels like an intensely wrong way to be delivering such news, although he can’t put the sense into words. 

“Thank’ee, sir,” says the man again, and reaches out for the paper. Bush hands it back mechanically. Watches wordlessly as the man knuckles once more, then turns and shuffles out wordlessly. 

After a few moments he goes back to his ironing, and turns his mind resolutely to his task.

\--

Bush realises early on – as all the sailors aboard every ship in the fleet already knew – that letters are an event to be dreaded. The incredible expense of the paper, ink, writer, and mailing, reserves them for one of two occasions: exceptionally joyous ones, or exceptionally tragic ones. And joy, apart from being rarer in the lives of the often extremely impoverished families of the lowest-ranked seamen, often isn’t worth the expense. Joy, Bush finds, apparently can keep. But death frequently carries new burdens, and even when it doesn’t the news still must be passed on.

He gets better at it, slowly. It would never occur to him that it’s the one activity in which he consciously attempts to demonstrate the good heart he would never even consider having, not to mention acknowledge.

\--

_Jack,_

_Our mum’s died; we had the funeral Friday last._

_David_

“I’m sorry to tell you, Richmond, that your mother has passed away. Your brother says they held a decent funeral for her and saw her off well.”

_Bill,_

_The girls caught the pox. They died last week. Young Bill’s alright._

_Mary_

“I’m afraid, Sears, there’s bad news. Your girls have died of the smallpox. But a Miss Mary – your wife? – says Young Bill is alright, as is she.”

_Frank,_

_The house burned down last week. Dad and Jill and the kids were all inside. I can’t raise enough for the burials; if you have anything, please send it._

_Jake_

“I’m very sorry, Leymould, but there was a fire at your home. Your father, Jill and the children weren’t able to get out. I’m afraid they’re dead. The funerals haven’t been held yet… Jake asks that you send any wages you may have put by to help with that.”

Sometimes, he writes letters for them. Provided they can find the paper themselves, he doesn’t charge a fee.

\--

They spend months blockading Brest against a French invasion of Britain, or an attempt at raising Ireland against them. Now and then a new ship joins the blockade, now and then the water hoys or the victualing ships pass by. Along with the bounty of their wide interiors, they pass along the familiar canvas sacks. The captain reads news of his wife, growing heavier and heavier as the New Year approaches. Bush reads that his sisters predict being able to make the winter beds last well into February, and with the half of his pay that they are drawing are planning to plant a fine new crop of early potatoes and greens in the spring. The midshipmen read such news as their families care to send them; apart from Hammond they come from no noble birth and have no connections, and Bush doubts their parents care much more what they send than he himself cares to know what they receive.

The water hoys come late this month, the most recent winter gale beating what remains of its fury against the coast of Denmark by the time they claw their way down the channel to meet the _Hotspur_ at her lookout near the passage into Brest. It takes several hours to sway the barrels up out of the hold to be filled on the decks, and then back down again, and although the captain checks through the mail in case of new orders, Bush himself doesn’t see it until that evening.

It’s only been three weeks since the last mail delivery came with _Pallas_ ’ joining the Squadron at the beginning of the month, and consequently there is only a single letter for him. He has the watch, and leaves it in his quarters to read tomorrow: reading his sisters’ tight, paper-saving scrawl in candlelight gives him a headache. 

Although there’s nearly no wind it’s still fairly cold, and Bush has a rough scarf tucked in between his pea coat and his jacket and is keeping his hands clasped tightly behind his back and out of the slight gusts that drift up from the deck every now and then. The ship is lit in the pale yellow glow of her lanterns, barely enough light to see by, it being expected that all hands know the ship well enough not to need it. On the horizon he can make out only _Naiad_ ’s lights, glowing like a will-o’-the-wisp over the dark sea to the north. In the sheets, the man tasked with hourly depth-taking calls 8 fathoms, voice echoing low over the water. High above the ship in the rigging, a man coughs in the cold dryness. Bush brings his hands up to his mouth and huffs on them, then rubs until some of the feeling returns. 

He’s standing still, mind wandering through the dull channels it falls into in the long watches, never far from the gentle swaying of the ship and whisper of the wind in her sails, when he becomes aware of something needing his attention by the stairs leading up to the quarterdeck. His mind has catalogued whatever it is as wrong and drawn his attention to it before he knows exactly what he’s noticed. A moment’s attention tells him it’s Styles moving backwards and forwards near the railing. Styles, who has recently been moved to Orrock’s watch and should be in his warm hammock below decks. That alone is strange enough to warrant Bush’s attention, never mind his uncertain attitude. The lieutenant wonders for a moment whether he intends to throw himself overboard, but apart from the fact that Styles clings to life tighter than any limpet, he would hardly choose such a foolish and inconvenient way of killing himself. 

“Styles,” rasps Bush, refraining from bellowing only out of consideration for the captain sleeping below. “What in God’s name are you doing loafing about there man? Get below.”

Styles looks up at him; Bush can see the movement in the poor light, without being able to make much out of his expression.

“Sir,” he says, as a prelude to something, and luckily decides to continue before Bush crosses all the way over to him to ream him out. “I had a letter, sir. Off the water hoy.”

Bush refrains from cursing with an effort. It’s not the moment any man with brains in his head would have chosen. But Styles isn’t the type to air his trouble in public, at least not any trouble he can’t hammer out with his fists. And, although a lifetime of class consciousness and naval training has taught him to obey the orders of any superior without question, he wouldn’t go to a midshipman half as old as himself with his troubles. 

That he’d go to Bush is a shock for the lieutenant. 

The uneasy uncertainty Styles’ posture clearly shows the man’s not so sure of the choice himself. But the captain, being a captain now, is above being bothered with seamen’s letters. 

Bush would like to put it off to the day, until there’s more light at least and to give himself time to consider how not to set Styles off. He can deal with the man, of course, regardless of how he takes the news, but Styles in a sulk can throw off the balance of an entire watch’s worth of men and Bush would rather not have to clean up that mess.

But Styles has chosen his time for a reason, and now that he’s committed himself to face whatever’s in the folded scrap of paper Bush can’t quite bring himself to order the man off the deck. Not when he knows as well as the man what’s probably written there.

“Up you come, then,” he says, and leads the way over to the lantern which hangs at the quarterdeck’s stern. It’s ungainly, but he slits the cheap blot of wax open with a calloused thumb and leans over to read the careful lines of writing in the lamp’s flickering light. Long-attuned to sensing underlying currents, he has no trouble feeling Styles’ anxiety as the man stands by waiting; it rolls off him like mist over a cold sea. 

When he finishes he straightens and closes the flap of parchment again with his thumb, arms held gently at his side rather than in their stricter position behind him.

“It’s from your brother Owen,” he says evenly, watching Styles in the poor glow. “He says there was an accident in the harbour, and that the boat carrying your father and your brother was sunk.” At this, Styles lowers his head, and rather than loosening tenses even further. “I’m afraid they’re dead,” Bush adds softly.

“Yes, sir. None of us Styles can swim.” Bush makes to hand the letter back, but Styles apparently doesn’t see it, staring intently at the deck beneath his feet. Bush, almost despite himself, feels a surge of sympathy. 

“I didn’t know you had family in the navy,” says Bush after a moment.

“I don’t, sir. T’were a fishing ship. Me dad were in the navy, but he lost his leg in the Indes and they discharged him. Him and Alf fished out of Newhaven. Never stopped for a storm, not even the November gales. Must’ve been that last one that got him.”

It hadn’t been much of a blow for _Hotspur_ , but a small fishing vessel out in the open channel could easily flounder in a storm even weaker than that. 

“I’m sorry, Styles.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” Styles looks up dully, and pulls at his forelock as a matter of course. Turns to leave, then pauses. “Sir… if … would – could I ask a favour, sir? Well, not a favour, I’d pay, of course –”

“What is it, man?” cuts in Bush, before he can twist himself further and knowing well enough where this is going in any case.

“Our mum’ll be devastated, sir. If I could send her a letter…”

“You want me to write a letter for you,” says Bush, flatly, eyes dark as he watches the man. Styles doesn’t flinch, but he does withdraw slightly. And, impressively, goes on.

“Yes, sir.”

Bush has known worse than Styles, much worse. The man is a trouble-maker, and prone to bend the truth close to breaking-point, and get into moods which draw too many of the hands down with him. But he’s loyal, and faithful, and Bush knows he’s one of the few he can trust to look out for the captain when the captain forgets to look out for himself.

“Very well, Styles. Tomorrow, second bell in the dog watch.”

“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir.” With another tug he retreats, forgetting his letter. Bush stares down at it for a moment before tucking it away in his coat. Then he rubs his hands, crosses them behind his back, and strides forward to stand at his post.

\--

Styles shows up, as ordered, at the second bell. Bush, not wanting to prolong the interview, has pen and paper ready. Styles surprises him with providing a piece of paper himself, as well as a small block of wax.

“Heard from Leymould, sir. You wrote his family, provided he bring the paper, sir.”

Bush takes the paper, replacing his own piece in his carefully hoarded store, and uncorks his ink. Raises an eyebrow at Styles, who is staring at the blank parchment.

“To whom, man?”

This startles Styles out of his reverie, and he looks back to Bush. 

“To our mum, sir.”

Bush’s face sets stonily, but he puts pen to paper and writes scratchily, “Dear mother,” and stops, pen hanging over paper. He’s about to give Styles a glare when the man pulls himself together, and dictates the rest of the letter. 

Bush is aware that the situation is odd, but his own ingrained notions of the world prevent him from recognizing that this is due to the fact that he’s essentially taking orders from a common seaman. Has, by choice and out of consideration which he would never acknowledge, himself created a scenario in which that’s possible.

“I had the news about Dad and Alf. Take care of yourself. I’ll send some money when I get it.” Styles speaks in a slow, jerky way that suggests while he’s thought of what to say, he doesn’t feel quite right about saying it. Bush puts it down all the same, in the tight, slanting hand he learned all those years ago in the tiny classroom with its uneven desks and sputtering ink. Not much better than what he has now. Styles has probably never been in a classroom in his life.

“Is that all?” he asks, raising the pen and looking at Styles.

“Uh, yes. Yes, sir. It should – that should do it right?”

Bush restrains himself from a dry response. “I expect so,” he says, with gruff sincerity.

“Then no, sir. Just my name.”

Bush waits, and when nothing is forthcoming raises his eyebrows. And then, with some exasperation. “I assume you don’t want ‘Styles’, man!”

Styles starts. “Ah, sorry, sir. Bob, sir. Robert, rightly, but Bob’ll do.”

Bush sighs, but writes “Bob” as instructed. Turns the paper to face Styles, and hands him the quill. “Make your mark, then.” Styles takes it delicately, as though he might snap it, and draws a careful X before handing it back with more care than Bush has ever seen him take in anything. Bush doesn’t comment, simply blots the paper, waits for it to finish drying, and then folds it up and seals it with the wax provided. He addresses it again with Styles’ dictation to an address in Newhaven, and then hands it to the man.

“Off you go then, Styles.”

“Right, sir. Thank you, sir. Oh, about the charge…”

“The paper and wax were enough. Ink’s not worth anything.” Not true, but he’s allowed a ration of it from the Navy for the writing of reports, and it’s generally expected that some of that will go to other causes.

“Your time is, sir,” says Styles, and pulls out a coin.

“Aye, and you’re wasting it. Back to your duty.”

“But sir –”

“Out!” orders Bush with no uncertainty this time, and Styles hops out of the cabin.

Bush corks his ink, puts down his pen, and picks up his letter from his sisters. Hopefully it will distract him from his recent foray into philanthropy.

\--

The autumn gales blow themselves out before the Christmas expedition into the Brest passage to destroy troop transports in the darkness. The weather turns calm but bitterly cold, and the days when it snows are in fact warmer than the short days of clear pale skies and long nights of crisp white stars. New Year’s comes and goes, Bush wishing his captain good fortune for the coming year and hoping that he’ll be blessed with a healthy child, and receiving a curt but courteous reply. 

As if in reaction to the ringing in of the New Year, though, the winds have died down to nothing, and the Inshore Squandron is left at the mercy of the channel tides and currents with only a breath now and then with which to beat back to their position. The _Hotspur_ spends her days with a full spread of canvas, only restraining from wetting the sails for fear of ice, and trying to catch enough wind to keep out of danger. As the captain points out, they have it easier than the frigates or the towering ships of the line, who are so heavy and draw such a draught that what wisps of wind do whistle down the channel have no effect. But the _Hotspur_ , precisely because of her small size and shallower draught, has the most dangerous station. She is constantly in danger of being driven by the currents onto the Little Girls, or drawn by the tide up into the passage into Brest which could wreck her on the rocks or more simply lay her bare to French guns. 

There is nothing to do, no sails to be taken in and the icy deck too treacherous for practice at the guns. But there is all the more tension for that, the constant awareness among the entire crew that they are almost entirely reliant on the fickle channel weather and currents, and if the sea takes it into her head to wreck them she won’t be at a loss for ways to do so. And they themselves will have no way of preventing it.

Bush worries for the ship, but equally, he worries for her captain. Hornblower, never in the habit of thinking of himself at the best of times, has been alarmingly negligent since the autumn. Whether it’s the constant stress of keeping an eye on Brest and defusing any nefarious plans of the French or worry for his wife that’s the cause, Bush doesn’t know. He is aware, though, that the captain is in the worse physical condition he’s ever known him, worse even than those days in London when Hornblower played for his life at whist and pawned all he owned on top of that. He recovers somewhat after the successful raid into the Brest passage, but the strain of seeing the ship through the dead spell takes its toll on him. He isn’t the first man to catch cold, but he’s the first to take so badly with no weight or muscle to carry him through, and still pushes himself harder than any hand. 

Although the _Hotspur_ carries a Naval surgeon, Bush knows what such men are worth, and in any case Linney has no strength of character or more importantly respect among the crew. He makes timorous suggestions of potions and laudanum – the cure to all a sailor’s ill’s – and when his advice is ignored does not press the issue. Bush knows he can count on no help from that quarter. 

In fact, he can count on no help from any quarter; there are no other lieutenants to confer with, and he would hardly lower himself to discussing the captain’s health with the midshipmen. Equally, it is inconceivable that he go over Hornblower’s head to another captain of the squadron, much less to Admiral Parker. He is the only one who can raise his concerns with the captain, and he knows perfectly well that he doesn’t carry enough weight in such matters, in matters Hornblower considers related to his duty. So he does all he can to see that the captain’s orders are anticipated, and takes care to ensure that there is nothing to worry him apart from the one great worry that engulfs them all, in the faint hope of reducing his anxieties.

But Hornblower won’t rest while his ship is in danger, and won’t eat properly while he is anxious for her, and falls into a degrading spiral. Finally his illness, which has spread from a dry cough and some congestion to a fever with dizziness and a much uglier-sounding wet cough, begins to press him. And Bush, severely concerned for him, forces himself to do the same.

Even so, he despairs of convincing the captain that he isn’t well enough to do as much as he is doing. Fortunately, the illness gives him an unexpected aid. They are standing near the quarterdeck stairs at twilight one cold evening, Bush staring down the Goulet corridor with a glass while Hornblower stands at his side watching with his naked eyes. The sea is queerly calm under them, as it has been for more than a week with no wind to rouse it. It’s nearly like being on land, with just a tiny roll of the deck under their feet. Hornblower is sweating despite the cold air, but his face is pallid and his eyes dull. Bush, finished his observations – no ships any more ready for the open sea than they were a fortnight ago, typical French inefficiency – tucks the glass under his eye and turns to the captain. Who, right before his eyes, looses his balance on a flat deck and begins to tip towards the stairs.

Bush reacts without thought, grabbing Hornblower’s arm and then catching him about the chest when he doesn’t immediately find his feet. There is a long, sickening moment when Bush fears he will faint then and there on the quarterdeck. But then Hornblower rallies and straightens, passes a hand over his damp face.

“My apologies, Mr. Bush. I can’t think…” Bush doesn’t wait for the faltering tones to come up with an excuse.

“Sir, you’re ill. You need to rest, or I fear… I fear you may catch your death on this deck, sir, and that’s the truth.” He’s held back long enough.

Hornblower turns to look at him with eyes that are duller than they should be. 

“Won’t you rest, sir?”

Still, Hornblower hesitates, and Bush can see the effort it’s costing him to admit he may not be capable of the task he has been assigned to. Then he sighs and his shoulders drop all at once.

“You may be right, Mr. Bush. Yes… perhaps…” Hornblower sways again, and Bush doesn’t wait for any clearer agreement but simply helps him down the stairs, and then down again into his cabin.

Hornblower stays in his cabin for a full 36 hours, asleep or mildly drugged for the majority of the time while the hands are cautioned to speak in whispers under the threat of the bos’un’s rattan. To their credit, Bush is sure no threat was needed; they fall silent of their own accord when the news that the captain has taken ill spreads and he sees several men cuffing younger boys and the powder monkeys when they begin to forget themselves. 

These 36 hours, and the two days following during which Hornblower only comes up on deck for short checks before returning to his sickbed, is one of the most stressful times Bush has ever known. He is effectively in command, although without having made any official claim to it, and the responsibility for the safety of the ship, the men, and his captain lies heavily on his shoulders. 

But the situation is one requiring no strategy, no planning, merely pure seamanship, and Bush knows that here he is as capable as any man in the fleet. He stays on deck for nearly the entirety of the 36 hours, until at the last the wind finally begins to pick up. The men give a cheer, although even now it’s a muffled one, as the sails slowly fill and the rudder grips with her proper strength for the first time in more than a week.

It’s soon afterwards that a cutter makes her way down the channel, dropping packages at every ship which it takes no great bent of perception to know is the mail. Probably there have been new orders issued from the Admiralty, and in any case it’s been nearly a month since the last delivery. Bush stands eagerly by the side as the mail is hoisted up, and receives from the top the bundled addressed to the captain. His own can wait.

Hornblower is lying in his cabin, only just beginning to recuperate from the high fever. He grants Bush entrance in a weak voice and although he pulls himself up in his bed to sit leaning against the bulkhead his face is flushed and his eyes are still fever-bright.

“What is it, Mr. Bush?” His voice here, too, is weak and raspy.

“Mail, sir. Clipper came out specially.” He slits the string binding Hornblower’s mail together with his knife and selects the sealed orders addressed to Cmd. H. Hornblower, HMS _Hotspur_ . Hornblower takes it in a near-steady hand, breaks the seal with some difficulty and reads through the page within slowly. The effort clearly exhausts him; by the time he puts it down he is slumping in his bunk and breathing heavily. 

“Sir?”

“Nothing new, Mr. Bush. _Naiad_ and _Pallas_ are leaving us temporarily on a short mission to the south. We are to maintain position and _Discovery_ will come five points to the north to shore up the hole left by _Naiad_ , but we are to be aware that there will still be a gap until she returns.”

“Aye aye, sir.”

Hornblower closes his eyes, leaning his head back against the bulkhead, and Bush can see his pulse beating quickly in the hollow of his throat. He is just beginning to retreat on quiet feet when the captain’s eyes open again and shift to the bundle in his hand.

“What’s all that?”

Bush glances down at the letters, three of them. He fans them out and glances at the back. “From your wife, sir.”

Hornblower pales noticeably, and reaches out a now badly-shaking hand for them. Bush makes to give them over, eyes caught by the captain’s hand. “Sir, you should rest. The fever is still –”

“It is nothing,” says Hornblower with frustration, but he misjudges the height of the letters and grasps at empty space. His arm drops back to his side and his eyes slide closed, head rolling back against the wood.

“Sir!”

Hornblower waves a weak hand without opening his eyes. “It’s alright,” he mutters softly. And then, stronger, “Really, Mr. Bush. I’m alright.” He doesn’t ask for the letters again, though, and again Bush prepares to retreat, turning around in the narrow space of the cabin. “I apologize, William,” says Hornblower softly, and Bush stops in his tracks. “Perhaps I am not quite to rights.”

“You don’t need to apologize, sir,” protests Bush, mortified. 

Hornblower gives a ghost of a smile. “I believe I do. But having said so, I would like to ask a favour of you.”

“Of course, sir.”

“If you would be good enough to read the last letter from Ma – from my wife for me,” says Hornblower in a formal tone. It’s clear what it costs him to ask such a favour of Bush, allowing him into the private life he has tried to hard to lock away since he was promoted, with in Bush’s opinion good reason. A captain must command respect and obedience; he cannot be a close friend to his inferiors if he can be a friend at all.

“Of course, sir,” repeats Bush, and glances again at the letters to select the most recent. He places the other two on Hornblower’s desk, and slits open the envelope. 

Hornblower is not a rich man, but he can at least afford proper materials, and has taught his wife to wrap hers in oil cloth and seal them with a proper envelope. He unfolds the onion-like layers necessary to preserve correspondence in heavy seas, and puts aside the wrappings to be used again later as he and his sisters do.

The letter is long and full of underlines and exclamation marks. From the captain’s condition he hardly needs to hear the full length of it now, and Bush skims the lines in an effort to sort out the crucial information.

It doesn’t take much effort, the captain’s wife has put it right up at the top in heavy ink and extra lines, and despite himself Bush feels his face splitting into a wide smile.

He looks up and meets Hornblower’s anxious gaze. “Congratulations, sir,” he says warmly. “You have a son.”

As he reaches out to shake his dazed captain’s hand, Bush reflects on all the dozens of terrible letters he’s had to read in his years at sea, all the horrible news he has imparted. And finds that at this moment they are quite entirely balanced out by the simple astounded joy his words have brought to Hornblower.


End file.
